


Find a Little Remedy

by WalkingInland



Series: Hozier Song Fics [2]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Season 3, Voyager, also in which Julia obsesses over Hope as a Lifestyle, and see if something doesn’t rub off on you, but you try having a carpenter father who likes to Explain Things, do I really know anything about construction?, in which Julia uses construction words in fics, literally no one knows, no, of pretending that canon timelines are merely suggestions, once again we continue my favorite hobby, so I will do what I want, suggestions which I am choosing to ignore, when does Claire start med school?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 19:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30110853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkingInland/pseuds/WalkingInland
Summary: During the twenty year separation, Claire and Jamie unwittingly share a quiet moment - a meditation on life, and home, and most of all, hope.Title and inspiration taken from Hozier's "To Noise Making (Sing)""You didn't always sing it rightBut who could call you wrong?To put your emptiness to melodyYour awful heart to songYou don't have to sing it nice, but honey sing it strongAt best, you'll find a little remedyAt worst, the world will sing alongSo honey, sing."
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Series: Hozier Song Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986862
Comments: 23
Kudos: 58





	Find a Little Remedy

**Author's Note:**

> This is another installment in my series of fics inspired by Hozier songs. These fics are unrelated; they don't have any connection beyond the inspiration.
> 
> Check out "To Noise Making (Sing)" to see the inspiration for this one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7eUFtrQvsBc

_Who could ask you to_

_Be unbroken or be brave again?_

_Or, honey, hope even on this side of the grave again_

_And who could ask you to be sound or to feel saved again?_

_But stick around until you hear that music play again_

_And honey, sing._

*****

**May, 1752**

Jamie Fraser sat under a tree on a cliffside, a stone’s throw from the cave where he spent most of his days. It was near sunset, and he was thinking. Of all things he _could_ be thinking of, he found himself to be slightly baffled that the topic on his mind this evening was _singing_.

He couldn’t remember the last time he sang, or at least his version of off-key chanting. Or even danced.

Jenny had tried to drag him down from the cave at Hogmanay, insisted that it was _safe enough_ , that even if they had to have a simple celebration in these meagre times, it was worth it for him to come down and share in a dance and a dram or two.

But _safe enough_ would never be _enough_ in Jamie’s eyes. A dance and a dram, and time spent healing and _living_ with his family and tenants would never be worth the risk. Not with the price still on his head and the redcoats still swarming the land like flies, not with them knowing that it was a holiday and a time where the Scots’ guards were down. Perhaps if a winter came with the redcoats far off, then _perhaps_ he would risk it. But not before.

Despite all his excuses to Jenny however, there was more to the issue than that. Looming behind the specter of crimson-coated soldiers was the hard reality of his own grief. He knew how he had changed over these years; he was more ghost than man at times. What kind of company would he be for a holiday gathering?

It had been over six years now. Six years, and most days he could function how he needed, hunting, existing, occasionally spending the evening down at the house. But to spend a day singing, dancing, _celebrating?_ No. That was more than he could bear. And he would not put that burden on his brother and sister, his nieces and nephews. Not on Fergus, even as the boy’s shoulders had broadened to take on more burdens than a teenager should in the last few years. Jamie couldn’t add to that.

His wife and child were gone. They were gone. He knew that. He also knew that Jenny was beginning to wonder why he couldn’t move on, why he was still stuck in this place of limbo grief, unable to do much more than exist day-to-day. He couldn’t explain it fully to her of course. The hope and pain and uncertainty that was so entwined in his life now. His wife and child were not dead. Or at least he prayed they weren’t. But they _were_ gone. And he wasn’t sure how to move on in that knowledge, knowing that he had planned to be dead now himself.

Everything seemed to remind him of Claire, no matter how benign or how apparently meaningless. It was just another reason why spending time in the house was a heartache. The garden where she had worked, the potatoes that they survived off of, the rare moment indulged in amber whisky with Ian. It all brought her to mind.

A songbird started its song in the tree above him, and he chuckled ruefully a bit at himself as even _that_ reminded him of her. Perhaps that had been what started this whole train of thought to begin with.

She would sometimes sing at Lallybroch. Sing sweet lullabies to wee Kitty, or some silly play song with Maggie. Or on the warpath, if the men sang a song in English that she could join in on. He had no ear for the tunes himself, couldn’t tell one note from another. But to see her head tossed back in joy, with her eyes glinting over a play song or a bawdy walking song. To see her laugh with the bairns, joke with the men. _That_ was sweeter than any music in the world, any tune that could be heard.

The song of it reached his very soul.

Sometimes in quiet moments of toil or in the peace of their bedroom, she would sing songs from her time. In those moments, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t follow the strange words, much less the tune itself. The distant look in her eyes would melt away into a secret wistfulness, and then into a bashful grin when she caught him watching her.

He would always grin back at her, bending to gently kiss her forehead. He would always reassure her and tell her to “Sing, Sassenach. It does my heart good to see ye.”

He hoped, with his entire being, that she sang still. He couldn’t envision her life, what it looked like, how she filled her days. But Christ. He _prayed_ every day that she still found reason to hum under her breath, to murmur a song while she worked. He couldn’t bear to think of her otherwise. His courageous lass wasn’t meant to go through this world without her head held high, without reason to laugh and sing.

Jamie knew that she would wish the same for him.

He cast his eyes back up to the bird still in the tree above him. There hadn’t been reports of any patrols in the area for some time. Perhaps tonight would be a good night to go down to the house; to melt away another drop of his loneliness in the warmth of his family. Even without song and dance, the quiet rhythms of Lallybroch were a balm to his soul.

As he watched the bird fly off into the fading light, he could almost swear he felt a phantom touch at his side, a nudge that seemed to whisper in his ear.

_Go on then, Soldier._

*****

**May, 1954**

“Mama come _dance_! It’s th’ _song!!_ ”

Claire let out a sigh even as a grin stole across her face. “Th’ _song_ ” could be any one of a handful of songs that her precocious five-year-old insisted were her particular favorite at any given moment – “is a _dancin’ song,_ Mama!” -- every time they came on the radio. Claire turned away from the window boxes she had been watering – and the small songbird in the bush under the window – and turned to her daughter.

“Go on then, lovie,” she said as she leaned against the sill. “Show me how you dance this one and I’ll join you for the next one, alright?” She was feeling oddly fragile today, vulnerable in a way that she was usually able to keep close in her chest. She wasn’t sure why, exactly; it was no anniversary today, no date with meaning. But as the years passed by, she was realizing that spring and early summer simply felt… tender to her. Too many dates in those months, days of separation and days of birth and wedding days.

Most times she held that knowledge of tenderness carefully, and was able to move about her days in stride. But sometimes, like now, she just needed a moment. A moment to just _be._

Her baby hadn’t noticed any such _moment_ however, and proceeded to twirl around the kitchen, swinging her arms wide.

“Mmkay, Mama! Gotta _watch_ , ‘kay?”

“Okay, baby. I’m watching.”

And she did try to watch her little love, spinning about the room like a top, red hair swinging behind her back. As she watched though, her mind kept drifting back to that fragile place in her heart, so intent on making itself known.

When her parents died, when she lost Lamb, people told her that she was being _so brave._ She had been called resilient and strong. In truth, she had never felt so very far from those things – far from _brave_ \-- in her life.

Not then.

Not now.

Now she felt broken. Empty. It had been six years, and while surely there were moments of joy in that time, moments of lightness, she wasn’t sure that deep down she would ever be _brave_ again.

 _He_ had made that place in her. He had shored up that bravery in her soul, set up framing in his encouragement, had woven his love and his confidence and his enduring _belief_ around her until that bravery became her own, became a home where she could shelter whenever she needed. And with him gone she wasn’t sure that the structure could endure.

What was a home, after all, with no foundation?

And yet.

No matter how empty, how awful, how _broken_ her heart felt in quiet lonely moments in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling above her bed, her hope had never truly left her. She had her daughter. She was going to be a doctor someday, was going to be able to put healing hands to work once again.

She knew that Jamie was no longer by her side, shoring her up with his gentle touch and his brave soul and his steadfast love. But she knew, she _knew_ , that he would always be in her heart. She could still feel him smiling down at her as she worked in her garden and hummed whatever song had been on the radio most recently. He had given her Brianna. He had left her carrying unbearable grief, but he had planted that steadfast love of his in her heart. And wasn’t that a reason for song?

“Y’ _comin’_ , Mama?”

Tiny toddler hands grabbed hold of her own healer’s hands, pulling her out of her thoughts and looking up at her with those bright blue eyes, full of hope and life and _home._

And despite her fragile heart, Claire grinned down at her daughter as she squeezed her hands.

“Yes, love. I’m coming. You’ll have to show me the steps, won’t you? I’m not sure I remember from last time.”

Bree swung their grasped hands back and forth between them.

“Don’t worry! I’ll show you!” Her tiny voice turned serious as she furrowed her brows in stern command. “And you gotta _sing_ for this one, Mama. The dancin’ only works if you’re _singin’_ too.”

“Alright, baby,” Claire laughed. “I’ll sing too.”

Yes, her joy was now steeped in grief. But it didn’t take anything away from the joy itself. And she had their own fiery joy right in front of her, asking her to throw her head back, to put herself into song.

Jamie was with her still. He was with her when Bree leaned back her head to catch snowflakes on her tongue, calling out for her Mama to join her. He was with her when she sang their baby to sleep, when they danced in the kitchen to the radio, when she wept for lost joy and lost love. He was with her in every breath and every laugh and every sigh, in every moment when she thought the grief would steal the air from her lungs. He was with her in all the beauty and the pain. He was gone, but he was always by her side. And he always would be.

So she walked away from the window, away from the bird in the bush, away from distant memory. She followed her miracle – _their_ miracle – and held her tiny hands to dance.

She could swear that she felt the phantom touch of a kiss on her temple, could swear that she heard the faintest echo of a phantom voice in her ear.

_Go on, Sasssenach. Sing._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


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